


Yellow Ankle Brace

by sunscreams



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunscreams/pseuds/sunscreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Thirteen years is a long time, I decide as I stand in the contrasted darkness of the backstage area. I mean, you do something, like dance, for thirteen years and it sort of becomes habit, right?</p>
</blockquote>Or the one where Nico's a dancer and Will's also a dancer and Nico has the worst luck and Will doesn't, for once.
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Ankle Brace

**Author's Note:**

> For an anon on tumblr. I'm so sorry, I don't think this is what you wanted. Now freshly updated.

Thirteen years is a long time, I decide as I stand in the contrasted darkness of the backstage area. I mean, you do something, like dance, for thirteen years and it sort of becomes habit, right? Like the way I stand with my feet slightly turned out, or the way I glide when I walk, or the way I sometimes—for no reason other than because I can—go through all the ballet arm positions.

And I guess after thirteen years, listening to the same thing can kind of wear you out, too, right? Like the way my headmistress told a friend of mine she didn't deserve the onstage scholarship she received because the more advanced dancers were on the stage with her. Or like the way people mock me every year for being the only boy amongst a sea or girls. Or like the way adjudicators always single me out for the same reason. Or the way I'm given a different, slightly more masculine version of choreography when in group numbers. Or the way people always get a little uncomfortable when I tell them I'm a ballerina, not a football player.

So, maybe that's why, after thirteen years of loving every second of my dance classes, of being told I have talent, of wanting nothing more than to feel the light-warmed-stage under my feet, I'm quitting. However, I can't help feeling a little bittersweet. Like I said, thirteen years is a long time.

* * *

"Alright, Nico," Reyna, my ingenious choreographer and best friend, grabs me by one of my black t-shirt clad shoulders, "Are you ready for this?" I nod and take a deep breath.

"This is our last time out there," she whispers more to herself than to me, "So," she exclaims suddenly, "I expect nothing but the best from you today."

"Of course," I roll my eyes and Reyna pulls me into a hug.

"Have fun out there. It's your last time," her eyes soften as she holds be back at arms length.

"I will, Rey," I bring a hand up and clasp her shoulder. She pats mine twice before letting go.

"Get in position, stretch a little more, you have one number until you're on," Reyna points to the other side of the stage.

"Perfect timing as always," I quip, a smirk sliding across my face.

"I know you, Neeks," she smirks back, "You don't do anything but stew and worry. One number is the perfect amount of wait time for you."

I roll my eyes, "Yeah, whatever," _Reyna's right_ , is all that says. She, somehow, gets the message, walking off towards the backstage sound system with a wicked grin and a thumbs up. I shake my head, doing what I'm told.

Even after thirteen years, I still get nervous before I perform. Whether I'm performing for a competition or a recital, I still get a stomach full of knots, and that weird tingly feeling in my arms. My breath catches in my throat just enough for me to have to consciously measure my breaths and, my bladder always chooses the moment just before I go onstage to make itself known.

So, to battle this sickening feeling, I use my tried and true method of firmly ignoring my nerves until they go away.

The music pounds from the speakers and the stage bounces ever so slightly as the dancer onstage performs one last time in competition. I wonder what she's thinking, I wonder what she's feeling, I wonder if she's going to come back next year? She probably will, I mean, the way she interacts with the music, the stage and the audience, you'd think she's a professional. It's actually breathtaking.

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and crossing my arm over my chest to stretch it out. I breathe again and switch my arms. I stretched pretty thoroughly in the practice arena earlier, but arm and joint stretches are always good to do just before performances.

The girl's performance ends and the audience of parents and relatives cheers wildly. I, myself, clap for her as well. She did good and talking, or even thinking, negatively about your competitors is bad karma. You're almost 100% more likely to screw something up if you trash talk. It's true.

While clapping I meet eyes with a blond boy in the wing opposite me. He’s wearing a pair of light wash jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt and an un-buttoned yellow button up, rolled up to his elbows. I can’t tell if he’s a choreographer or a dancer because he smiles at me briefly before he turns to the girl who just came off stage, congratulating her with a thumbs up and a pat on the back.

I tear my eyes away, stomping on the sudden swell of longing. Longing to be the one that handsome guy pats on the back and gives a thumbs up to and smiles so brightly at. It's a dumb and stupid feeling. I don't have time to absently fall in love with strangers. I have a solo to slay.

The bell the adjudicator used to indicate readiness dings and the emcee announces my name and skill level. A ball of nerves jumps into my throat and I take one last deep breath as I wait for the first notes of my song to play.

I wait with bated breath for the beat that I start on. I silently count the counts and: wait, 2, 3. 2, 2, 3. 3, 2, 3. 4, 2, 3.

I get lost in the piano’s melody. The waltz tempo wraps me up in the comforting 1, 2, 3, beat. The stage is warm from the lights and I’m glad I remembered my foot-undiez as the stage is a little sticky.

My movements melt then lock and as my face contorts into a pained expression to go along with the hopeless tone of the music, I can’t help falling a little in love with the audience. The house lights, strangely enough, are on so I can see the faces of the viewers almost in perfect detail. It’s actually really off-putting, but when I notice the awe on their faces, I can’t help the warmth that wraps up my heart. I have to school my face back into the pained expression that goes with the steps, as to not break character.

I feel the song start to crescendo in the marrow of my bones. It’s time for tricks and I always get a little scared at this part even if I've practiced it seamlessly a million times before.

I lead into it, _Step, step_ , prep, _plié_ , big finish, _and kick_.

My right leg rockets in front of my body as I arc my back, letting my neck drop behind me. My left leg bends in a plié and my arms flow around me in a full port de bras, helping me keep my balance.

A sharp pain in my right ankle and I know I’m doomed. I land on my thrown-out-ankle and roll to the floor, hoping the adjudicator didn’t notice my ankle roll. I wasn’t supposed to end up on the floor after the kick, so I disregard my choreography and improv the next little bit until, I can get up.

My heart is pounding in my chest and my mind is on an endless loop of _oh shit, oh shit, oh shit._ My ankle is screaming in pain and I hope that the shit that I’m making up at least half-decent.

I pull into the splits, my arms gliding up with the music, then roll out of them and onto my feet, preparing to finish my dance on my left leg. The final notes play, and for the last time, I finish my solo on the wrong foot. Sweat drips into my mouth and I make my way off stage. I want to cry in outrage once in the wing.

Reyna rushes over to me, “Nico, oh my gods, are you okay?”

I pick my ankle up off the ground and limp over to a fold out chair, leaning on Reyna. I sink into it and nod my head shakily. “Was it at least good? Did I totally bomb it?” I can’t look at her. I ruined her beautifully choreographed dance and it’s at the last competition and I won't even have next year to redeem myself because my last solo performance ever I fucked up my ankle.

“Nico di Angelo, I don’t care about the choreo. Are you really okay?” Reyna bites out.

I sigh, “I’m fine," she raises an eyebrow at me, "Really, I'm fine. My ankle just threw out on the kick thing."

“Your ankle _just_ threw out?” she asks incredulously.

“Reyna it’s not a big deal—” I shake my head.

“Not a big deal?” she clicks her tongue, “Nico, your sister is going to have my head. You should have come off.”

I look at her harshly, “No way. I won’t come off early.” We have a stare down for a few seconds before the blond from before interrupts.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help over hearing,” he rubs his neck nervously as both Reyna and I look at him, unblinkingly. “I, um. I have an ankle brace if you’d like to borrow it just for adjudication.”

“He’s not staying—”

“If you wouldn’t mind—”

Reyna and I glare at each other. The poor guy just looks confused.

“Look, my dad is a doctor and I’m not really 100% okay with letting someone stay after they’ve hurt themselves, but this is the last competition of the season and adjudication is in one number,” his eyes—which are startlingly blue—flick from Reyna to me. He smiles, “You should get to go on at least for that," he looks back at Reyna, a sheepish look on his face.

She crosses her arms and looks away before sighing a resigned, “Get the brace.”

The guy and I both sigh in relief. He nods his head, blond curls bouncing, and dashes off towards a sunny yellow bag thrown into a shadowed corner. He rushes back with an equally yellow ankle brace.

“Which ankle is it?” he asks blue eyes looking up at me from where he’s kneeling in front of me.

“The right one,” I say indicating unnecessarily with a nod of my head. He nods and begins to set it. I clench my teeth as he pulls the straps tight. After a few muttered curse words and rushed out apologies, the bright yellow brace is secured around my ankle, compressing the joint and keeping it in place.

He stands up and smiles, “How’s that?”

I shrug, “Still hurts, but thanks.”

He shrugs back in exact imitation of me, “Don’t worry about it.” He looks toward the stage as the last dancer in the category finishes up. His eyebrows burrow together, giving him a few wrinkles. “Are you going to need help onstage?”

I glare up at him half-heartedly. “No,” I look away and push myself up, “I’ll be fine.”

He rolls his eyes, “Alright,” he says and pats me on the back lightly and my heart soars without my permission, “You did great out there by the way.”

I open my mouth to thank him, but the emcee cuts me off, calling the dancers back onstage. I hobble into the harsh light to collect my standing. I don’t try to find Hazel in the crowd like I usually do. I know she’ll just be worrying about both my random choreography change and the appearance of a yellow ankle brace.

The adjudicator makes his way upstage. He’s a short man, dressed smartly in a suit with freshly shined shoes and a stylish man-bun. He smiles and welcomes the people in the audience, asking them to give the “amazing dancers up here another round of applause.”

I clap along with the crowd as is the proper way.

The adjudicator makes a few general notes. Something about making sure we breathe into our characters and how we need to listen to our music. Stay on time or whatever. Same thing that’s always said.

“Alright, enough fluff. Time to hand out awards,” he smiles at us before calling the first name in the category. There’s ten of us and I’m number nine, so by the time he gets to me, my foot is numb and my ankle is on fire.

“Nico di Angelo,” I step forward. He pauses and k hold my breath, not expecting anything good. “Platinum and first,” he says smiling. I bow and step back into the line accepting the bright white-gold medal and the matching trophy.

One more medal is handed out before he moves onto the overall awards. “I’d like to take a minute to thank all of you dancers, for coming out here today. Y'all did amazing and I can’t emphasize enough that this is my favourite category to judge. All of you guys are just so graceful.

“So, without further ado, the award for Most Promising goes to Katie Gardener,” I clap, a dazed smile on my face. I don’t know her personally, but she goes to my studio and I’m proud of her. She got first in her sub-category.

“The award for Most Outstanding goes to Nico di Angelo,” I blink and accept the plaque that’s shoved into my hands. The audience cheers and a sharp whistle can be heard from backstage. I wince, assuming it's Reyna. I allow a small smile to peek out. Bowing slightly, the adjudicator thanks us all for coming out, again, then dissmisses us.

I hobble off stage and Reyna crushes me in a hug. “Nico di Angelo, I’m so proud of you!” She steadies me as we make our way to the side.

A few dancers stop to congratulate me, telling me I definitely deserved it. My head is spinning as I sink into the chair I was sitting in before. Reyna takes my trophy and plaque, pushing my medal over my head, telling me she’ll go get my bag from the dressing room.

I manage to mutter out a weak okay, still trying to process what just happened. My mind runs in circles and I can't believe I slayed, as I usually do, with my shitty improved choreo.

The blond guy walks over to me with a smile as blinding as the sun. “Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!” his eyes sparkle.

“Thanks,” I mumble, a blush blooming across my nose, not used to the attention.

“Look, I have to go onstage in like one number. This is sort of my category,” He shrugs and rubs his neck. “But, um, you should definitely go to the hospital.”

I roll my eyes, “You’re starting to sound like my sister.”

He chuckles, “Is that a good thing?”

I shrug, “She’s pretty nag-y.”

“Ooh, sounds rough. I don’t think I like that,” he winces playfully. I roll my eyes and he smiles. “Anyway, I could give you my number and we could figure out a time where I could pick up my brace. Or whatever.”

“You could just have it now” I lean down to take it off.

“Oh, no,” the blond grabs my shoulder to stop me from continuing, “As the son of a doctor, I am giving the order for you to keep that on the whole way to the hospital.”

I roll my eyes, “It’s probably not even a big deal.”

“Doctors orders, Mr. di Angelo,” the blond teases through a smile.

I huff, “You're not even a doctor."

"That's not relevant," he waves off.

"Actually, it kind of is," I tease back.

"Nah," he shrugs, his smile widening. We stare at each other for a few silent seconds, the loud beat of music behind us.

I sigh, "Oh my god. Fine, what’s your number?”

The blond smiles, triumphant, and turns to his bag. He pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. After quickly scribbling on the page, he rips it from the pad and hands it to me.

“My name’s Will. Call me later and we can meet up,” he shrugs, "I mean, you never know when I might need my ankle brace again."

I take the paper and stand up. "Thank god, I can’t wait to get rid of this monstrosity.” I gesture to the yellow brace.

Will places a hand over his heart and gasps dramatically, “How could you insult my brace like that? Do you now how hard it is to find a yellow ankle brace?” he pauses, a smile tugging at his lips, “Very hard, for your information!” he laughs.

“Well, your yellow ankle brace will get back to you very shortly,” I say back dryly.

Will smiles, “Good, I can’t wait.”

Me, neither. I don’t say as Reyna comes back holding my bag and jacket.

“Your sister has called your phone, like, a million times and if you don’t call her back in the next .03 seconds, I think she’ll kill someone,” Reyna hands me my jacket to put on. I place Will’s number in the pocket and zip it up.

“She won’t kill anyone.” I say, “Maim? Now that’s a whole other world of trouble.”

As I shoulder my bag, I turn to say goodbye and good luck to Will, but he's already gone and my heart deflates a little. “Let’s go. I’ve got an ankle to get checked out," I say with a sigh to Reyna.

As Reyna helps me out of the backstage area and into the lobby, I can’t help the bittersweet feeling from earlier from coming back. I smile wistfully, my mind filled with yellow hair and blue eyes as Hazel fusses over me the whole ride to the hospital.

I pull my phone out of my bag and add Will into my contacts. I hope I don’t have to delete it after he picks up his brace.

**Author's Note:**

> Ballet Dictionary:  
> -Plié: To bend your knees aka: a fancy word for a lunge...sort of.  
> -(full) Port de Bras: Literally "carriage of the arms." Just when your arms start over your head in a nice round curve, then make their way down around behind your body to end in a curve in front of your hips.  
> -Foot-undiez: a brand of shoes that covers just the balls of your feet to help you turn and slide on floors. You wear them when bare foot. They look like underwear for your feet, hence the funny name.
> 
> I think that covers all the terminology I used in the fic. Also, anon, I really hope this is sort of close to what you wanted. I may or may not add on. For now, this is a stand-alone. I love this AU and it was so, so fun.
> 
> The song I imagine Nico to be dancing to is "I Know I'm a Wolf" by Young Heretics (super good song, fyi. You all should listen to it).
> 
> Prompts are open [here](http://sunscreams.tumblr.com).


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